Beauty's Awakening
by SublimeClarity
Summary: He makes death taste like sugar. TRGW


**Author's Notes:** Written for **fanfic100** and the prompt "Death". Honestly? I don't know where this came from, only that it had something to do with the discussions at A.R.G.H. on FictionAlley Park.

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**Beauty's Awakening**

Ginny still fears death, when wrinkles have dug their way into her face and age spots have popped up next to her natural freckles and even the red of her hair has washed off. She feared it at 9 at the makeshift funeral of Ron's Puffskein, at 11 in the Chamber of Secrets -- oh, how she _feared_ -- at 12 in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class, at 14 in the Department of Mysteries, at 16 in the war, fears it at 158 in her armchair by the window.

Back in the day, she used to think this fear would vanish once she had fulfilled her dreams, achieved her goals, "lived her life" so to speak. Yet here she is, old by wizard standards, ancient by Muggle ones, and the fear is still there, is, in fact, stronger than ever.

The difference between then and now does not lie in the nature or the intensity of the fear, but in the former redhead's attitude towards it.

Ginny still fears death, yes... but she now also anticipates it.

Which is why she does not quail when a gust rattles the windows and snuffs the fireplace -- not even when she realizes that it came from the inside of the room. The scene is set, the heroine is in place, the background music starts playing in her head -- Tchaikovsky's "Sleeping Beauty" -- and the only remainder is her leading man.

He does not keep her waiting.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley."

"Oh the irony," she exclaims, before even glancing at him. She has heard that voice too many times, in both nightmares and fantasies, not to recognize it. Sure enough, her gaze meets that of a tall, dark-haired, pale, sixteen-year-old boy. "Should have known the Grim Reaper is also bound to have a grim _sense of humor_."

"But I am not Him, Ginevra," he replies smoothly. "Surely you would not deem me capable of something as crude as _reaping_. I would much rather... collect."

Ginny's stare could Petrify a man swifter than Medusa ever managed. "Only you would sugar-coat Death, of all things."

Riddle's stare could do the same swifter than _Ginny_ could ever manage. "Only me. And you should thank me for having it taste like sugar, instead of vinegar and dirt and plaster and --"

"_Stuff it_, Riddle."

"-- Potter's kiss --"

"Do your worst!" Ginny bursts out. She has promised herself she won't be intimidated by him, but that task is proving more difficult by the second. Her tired whispers are no match for his hissed sibilants, her confined movements for his energetic gestures, her withered appearance for his boyish good looks. There is only one thing she possesses that he lacks... "I've had a good life. You can't hurt me, not really; you can only kill me. So do your worst, you bastard."

"My, my... And here I was hoping the years would have taught you some manners."

"And I was hoping death would have taught you some _discretion_ when it comes to entering people's rooms, but you still came at midnight --"

"That would be _a quarter_ to midnight."

"-- _through the wall_."

Riddle waves her retaliation off. "Spare me the accusations. I don't wish to hurt you. On the contrary, I'm here to grant you a pleasant experience."

Ginny laughs derisively, but her eyes are glassy with tears. "Pleasant... Where have I heard that before? Pleasant like you had promised the Chamber --" she manages to utter the word without flinching "-- to be?"

"No. Pleasant like I had promised our year together to be. And don't deny it was, Ginevra..."

"What the _Hell_ are you -- how can you _even_... You made me do all those _horrible_ things --"

"Which served as a backdrop to highlight the _good_ things." Riddle smirks at her deer-caught-in-the-headlights look and methodically approaches her. "Fantasies, confessions, admissions, secrets, intimacies. They are the reason I stand before you, in Potter's or Longbottom's or a relative's stead." He is close enough to touch now, if she just stretches her arm out, the one currently unified with the chair. "To this point, you have been Molly's daughter, Ron's sister, Granger's pet-project, Potter's love interest, Longbottom's wife. Shed the adjectives. It's just you and your diary now, as it used to be... just you and me."

The boy extends an arm to her, but she merely shrinks further in her armchair, feeling disoriented, scared, exhausted, _old_. "I've had a good life," she repeats stupidly.

"I'm sure you have," Riddle replies with the utmost patience, "but it's time to slay the prince, burn the shoe and snap the matchsticks. You are neither Arthur's queen nor Lancelot's damsel-in-distress any longer. Come, Ginevra... come, Ginny."

"Tom," she addresses him, anchoring her courage on that name and reaching out -- out of her armchair, out of her cocoon, out of her life.

By the time her hand touches his, its wrinkles are ironed, its age-spots gone, its grey down reverted to natural red. Her small, childish fingers find his own, and Ginny is relieved to discover that it's not a perfect fit. The smile that follows lights up her youthful complexion and bright red hair. Tchaikovsky is liberated from the walls of her skull and filling the whole room with the Awakening's notes, when she asks:

"Can I at least have my wake-up kiss?"

Tom complies, and it's all rough teeth and cracked lips, just clumsy and uncertain enough to assure her that they're both children; that he never passed sixteen and she never reached eleven; that they are underage for Heaven, yet late for Never Never Land; that they do not belong _to_ each other but _with_ each other; that, once more, he can be Tom and she can be Ginny.

Just Ginny.


End file.
